


Crime Scene

by sky_blue_hightops



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Gunshot Wounds, Hurt/Comfort, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-10
Updated: 2018-07-10
Packaged: 2019-06-08 11:00:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 948
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15241920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sky_blue_hightops/pseuds/sky_blue_hightops
Summary: A gunshot. A few moments. Then stumbling footsteps make their way down the staircase. Hank draws his gun in case it’s the perpetrator, then remembers Connor doesn’t carry a standard weapon, and couldn’t have fired the shot.The footsteps reach the bottom. Brown eyes meet his. The scene goes quiet. The only sound is thirium drip-drip-dripping on the floor.“Th-there was…a deviant, upstairs-”Sometimes Hank really hates his job.





	Crime Scene

Hank taps his shoe on the floor, waiting for Connor to return with an analysis and another android’s or human’s blood on his lips as per usual. He glances around. Another routine criminal scene marks the once-quiet residence a war scene, another family torn apart. Another family victims of hatred, this time a rogue android. Sometimes Hank really hates his job.

A gunshot. A few moments. Then stumbling footsteps make their way down the staircase. Hank draws his gun in case it’s the perpetrator, then remembers Connor doesn’t carry a standard weapon, and couldn’t have fired the shot.

The footsteps reach the bottom. Brown eyes meet his. The scene goes quiet. The only sound is thirium drip-drip-dripping on the floor.

“Th-there was…a deviant, upstairs-”

Sometimes Hank  _really_  hates his job.

A pained whimper. That’s all Connor manages to get out before he drops, blue blood seeping between his fingers. Hank makes a dive for the unresponsive android, just barely stopping his head from hitting the ground.

“Connor? Connor!” Hank pats his face harshly with one hand, the other roaming to find the source of the leakage. “Buddy, you gotta stay with me. What’s wrong?” No response. Hank curses violently. Connor’s losing thirium quickly, the viscous liquid pooling under him at an alarming rate.

He whispers foul language the same way one might whisper a prayer, hands pressing down on the gunshot wound in Connor’s chest with his full weight. Officers buzz around him, storming upstairs for the shooter, but all Hank can see is Connor’s bright red LED contrasting the blue staining his hands. “Connor, get up! That’s an order! You need to tell me how to fix this!”

Connor’s eyes flicker. His back arches slightly under Hank’s weight, a pained groan slipping between his blue-stained lips. Is it his blood? It’s hard to tell. “H'nk? Whas'goin on?” he slurs, eyes unfocused.

“You’ve been shot in the chest, what do I do?”  _Idiot_ , he adds mentally. Connor weakly raises a hand to gesture at his chest.

“Uh, j'st find the broken line ‘n pinch it and it should conster- corres- co-”

“Coagulate?” Hank supplies. He’s not that much of a idiot. Connor nods slightly, wincing as Hank digs his fingers into the wound to find the leak.

If he’s being honest, it’s a whole new level of gross. No matter how realistic android synthetic flesh was designed to be, it has a rubbery texture that just screams  _wrong_. Hank works quickly, doing his best to ignore the small sounds of pain Connor emits.

When he finds the line, the puddle around Connor is big. Too big. He pinches it as tight as possible and roughly shakes Connor’s shoulder. “Hey kid, you gotta get up for a second, we’re gonna go home and get you fixed up, okay?” It’s almost too much to keep the worry out of his voice.

Connor stirs briefly, finally regaining some conciousness. “Where ’re we?” Hank helps him sit up, holding him up when Connor slumps completely into Hank’s arms.

Hank ignores the question in favor of getting him standing. “We’re gonna get up on three, alright? One, two,  _three_ -” Connor staggers but keeps his balance as Hank pulls him up, one arm around his waist and the other tugging Connor’s to wrap around Hank’s neck. Connor stifles a louder cry of pain, his knees buckling slightly.

It’s an ordeal to get the injured android out to Hank’s car, but they make it. Hank’s never been more happy for his leather seats as Connor weakly slides into the passenger side, thirium getting  _everywhere_. Connor’s head rests against the window, eyes fluttering shut.

“Nope, none of that,” Hank says. “Stay awake, eyes open, that’s it. A short drive home and I’ll set you up with that spare parts box of yours.” Connor’s head bobs in way that could be considered a nod of acknowledgement and Hank takes it as a success.

He kicks the car into gear and tears down the streets of Detroit as fast and as carefully as he can, aware of Connor drifting in and out next to him. The fourteen-minute drive is fourteen minutes too long by the time he pulls up, rushing out of his seat to open Connor’s door. “Hey, you awake? We’re home.” He gets a tiny, heartbreaking whimper in response. Connor shifts towards him, too tired and in pain to get up by himself but clearly seeking the comfort of Hank’s roughed-up couch and a nice, thick blanket.

Hank reaches in to unbuckle the kid’s seatbelt, then hook his arms under Connor’s to hoist him out. Connor, the poor kid, does his best to help, which means pushing up weakly with his legs and leaving the rest to Hank. Once he’s out he melts into Hank, too exhausted to let out anything but a small puff of air.

Hank practically carries him inside (what is the kid made of, lead?) and drops him on the couch as gently as one could drop a very heavy, very out-of-it android. It takes all of five minutes to procure said nice, thick blanket, which he shoves under Connor’s head. Another five minutes and Hank’s found the android version of a first-aid kit, stocked with spare thirium bags, some mini fancy welding iron, and what looks like electrical tape.

He shakes Connor for what’s probably the thirtieth time tonight, relieved when the android seems more lucid than before. Connor reaches for the kit and begins pulling up his shirt to fix the broken line and run diagnostics. “You gonna be okay?” Hank’s hand finds Connor’s hair, supporting his head. Connor sends him a smile, eyes tired but peaceful.

“Thanks, Dad.”


End file.
